Left out in the Cold
by Night of the Living Monkey
Summary: An early blizzard disrupts the Scarecrow's plans for Halloween. Harley Quinn disrupts them even more.


Yay, Halloween fic time!

* * *

"No, I am not interested in attending a costume party at the Iceberg Lounge where the costume theme is 'feathers.' What aspect of that would appeal to me?"

"No, I do not want to be your plus one at what will no doubt turn into a drunken Nigma spilling wine on himself and bemoaning every guest's lack of intelligence."

"Tea and the potential for mind control. I'll pass."

"I will not be arrested for crashing Bruce Wayne's yearly masquerade ball, thank you. I have at least that much dignity."

"...Why is Killer Moth having a Halloween party?"

Harley groaned and threw up her hands. "I dunno Professor, maybe 'cause he likes _fun_? Unlike somebody."

Crane crossed his arms and glowered. "We have very different ideas of fun. Especially when it comes to Halloween. I am about terror. Killer Moth, what even is his purpose? Attacking the porch lights people leave on too long?"

Harley shrugged. "His parties ain't so bad. He really knows how to spike the punch-bowl and he has like _fifty_ versions of _The Monster Mash_."

"Is Zsasz having a party where he slaughters the guests? Because that's one I'd attend before any of your suggestions," Crane replied.

"You know what, Professor, why dontcha just stay home and watch scary movies all by yourself? 'Cause I'm done tryin' to help you."

Crane usually wasn't one to antagonize Harley, if only because her 'bestest best gal pal' could feed him to ravenous dandelions, but this time, he was outright offended. Help him? _Help him_?! He had made no entreaties for help! She'd broken into his home, waving around a sheath of invitations and insisting she could make up for the fact Halloween was going to fall on a Tuesday amid near-blizzard conditions.

Very little, and certainly not standing around awkwardly at a party, could make up for that disappointment!

"That is exactly what I plan to do! A night spent with George Romero and Tobe Hooper will be infinitely more pleasurable than a night spent with you."

Harley recoiled as though slapped. Her bottom lip trembled. Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes. Her hands clenched into fists that crushed the numerous invitations she held.

Crane realized he had made a mistake. Even if Harley didn't punch him herself or run sobbing to Ivy, who would extract a much thornier revenge, he had just damaged if not outright destroyed his relationship with one of his few acquaintances. Crane could count on one hand the number of people he willingly interacted with. If he lost one, that meant he might end up spending more time with the few remainders. Nigma or Tetch could be tolerable in small doses—very small doses—but anything longer than a game of chess became torture.

"Child, I may have been too harsh in-"

"All I wanted to do was have a good time with a friend! Since me and Mr. J called it quits, I been feelin' real blue! I just wanted to go to a party!" Harley dissolved into hysterics.

Crane had seen his victims show off the waterworks, but he didn't think he'd ever seen anything as extravagant as Harley. If she sobbed any harder, they'd be able to use her for hydroelectric power. Tears streamed down her face and Crane could swear her shrieks shook the lenses of his glasses.

"I didn't intend to upset you," Crane said. His voice was drowned out by Harley's weeping.

"You know, beyond fear, I don't interpret human emotion well. I have no idea what to do when faced with the problem you're having." Harley sunk to the floor like someone had opened a valve and let the air out of her.

"I'm going to get you a Kleenex."

Crane carefully stepped around Harley, who was now writhing around on the floor as though her emotional pain was so intense it had become physical, ten-out-of-ten, unbearable agony. People who had lost their entire families in moronically stupid and tragic ways—say, runaway ice cream truck—had reacted with more poise. Any dignity Harley had ever contained had long been forced out her tear ducts.

With his apartment full of noise and tears and mucus, Crane had no real reason to stay. There was nothing to stop him from sneaking out the door and running down to his stolen van in the adjoining alley as quickly as his long-ass legs would carry him. He was not Harley's guardian. Her emotional health was not his responsibility. For Christ's sake, anyone who expected the Scarecrow to improve their state of mind really needed to have their head examined!

"Here's a box of tissues. Should I leave them here? Do you want to get up off the floor? I know where to get Xanax. Yes, that's the right thing to say. Obviously." Crane placed the Kleenex on the floor and nudged them with his foot to within Harley's reach.

The tissues were not the magic talisman that could heal Harley's broken heart. Crane ran a hand through his hair. He lived alone. He did not associate with females outside of villains, victims, and the occasional Arkham shrink. He wasn't sure if he'd ever been on what could be considered a date. He sounded like a serial killer.

He had to fix this.

What did Harley like? Hyenas, Poison Ivy, skin-tight outfits, cutesy nicknames. Crane had none of those things available. He wracked his brain. Surely there was something in his apartment that could distract her? Books? He had plenty of those, but somehow Crane didn't think Freud in the original German would do much for her.

Food! Harley loved sweets. And, if the horrendous sitcoms he'd been forced to endure when someone else was given remote privileges in Arkham were anything to go on, women in general sought post-break-up relief in ice cream, cake, and baggy sweatpants.

What did he have in the way of food? Crane threw open his fridge. Old takeout. Very old takeout. And takeout so old it could generate archaeological interest. That was not going to cut it.

What about the freezer? He couldn't recall ever buying ice cream, but perhaps in a fatigue-induced trance he had done it and then forgotten. Hoping his overworked mind had a sweet tooth, Crane opened the freezer.

Ice cubes. Nothing but ice cubes. Wait, what was that in the back? A package of hot dogs with two dogs left. They were obviously freezer-burned. Harley's hyenas wouldn't eat them.

He still had the cupboards. In something approaching a panic, Crane ransacked his meager pantry. A jar of peanut butter, ramen, canned vegetables he was never going to eat so why did he bother, a box of cereal, and, behind that, a bar of chocolate. Still sealed in the wrapper and not covered in ants.

Crane grabbed the chocolate and almost hugged it. Now all he had to do was get it into Harley's mouth. He could wait for her to cry and then jam it in there. If the taste didn't quiet her, the surprise would.

And this was why he had no friends.

If he couldn't stick the chocolate into Harley's mouth like a pacifier, maybe he could make it more appealing and easier to handle. He considered his meager cooking supplies. He did own a half-way decent mug. If he took the chocolate, added some water, and warmed it in the microwave, maybe it would make something recognizable as hot chocolate.

It was his best shot. Crane broke the chocolate into pieces small enough to fit into the mug, added tap water, and threw his creation into the microwave for a minute. When it was done, he removed the mug and stirred it furiously with one of the two spoons he owned. It smelled vaguely pleasant once the contents stopped swirling.

Crane walked back to find Harley had cried herself into a pathetic ball. She was no longer wailing like all her loved ones had been murdered in front of her, but she hadn't stopped entirely. She was still sniffling and hiccuping.

Crane knelt down beside Harley. If she knew he was there, she made no move to acknowledge him. He placed the mug next to her head.

"I made you hot chocolate," Crane said. Harley lifted her head up. Her eyes were red and watery. Crane pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to her.

"S-sorry, Professor. It's just that me and Mr. J always used to have a lot of fun on Halloween and-and-and now I'm cryin' on the floor instead!"

"You don't need the clown to have fun," Crane replied. And if there was any justice, said clown was out in the weather somewhere, freezing to death in a dumpster.

"I know, but goin' to a party by yourself is super lame. I was gonna get Red to go, but she's doin' something with pumpkins. And everybody else is havin' their own party. But I knew you wouldn't be, so I came to visit."

Harley blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and tried to hand the very used tissue back to Crane. He suggested she keep it.

Once she had her secretions under control, Harley sat up and reached for the mug. Most people, given anything to ingest by the Scarecrow, would have been cautious. Not Harley. She gulped down a huge mouthful. And spat it up as soon as her brain registered the flavor.

Crane sighed but couldn't color himself surprised. "It's a melted chocolate bar and water. It's all I had, unless you'd like a can of corn."

Harley coughed. "Thanks for makin' this for me."

"But it's horrendous."

"Yeah, but it was a nice thing to do."

There was a moment of silence that didn't quite have a chance to become awkward before Harley added, "I'm sorry I tried to make you go to a party. I know you don't really like...people."

Crane said, "And I apologize for my statements. I would not prefer being murdered over being in your presence."

Crane extended a long, spindly hand and Harley took it. He pulled her to her feet.

"Not that it's my business or nothin' but did you say all the food you had was canned corn?" Harley asked.

"I've got a few packets of ramen and some ice cubes, too," Crane replied, feeling like the world's shittiest doomsday prepper.

Harley scoffed. "How are we gonna have a movie marathon if that's all you got? Come on, we gotta go to the store!"

"Or..." Crane began.

"Or?" If Harley had been a dog, her ears would have pricked up.

"Or we could pay Killer Moth a visit and abscond with all his party snacks. And fill a Thermos or two from the punch bowl."

Harley squealed with delight. "I know just how to do it! I'm gonna dance like this-" She proceeded to gyrate and perform what Crane was marginally sure was called 'twerking'- "and while Killer Moth's distracted, you grab the snacks."

"And what if Killer Moth is not entranced by your dancing?"

Harley shrugged. "We can punch him in the face! I'm sure he won't take it personally. Everybody punches him in the face. Girl scouts, old ladies, B-man, cops, Firefly that time they got in a fight over who was the better bug. Yeah, everybody."

"I think I'll bring some fear toxin with me. I have so much now that the Nor'Easter destroyed my original Halloween plans," Crane said.

Harley clung to his arm. "No, don't be that mean to Killer Moth. Come on, Professor Crane. He's...Killer Moth."

Crane sighed. "That's true, he is the most pathetic rogue. Even worse than King Tut and Crazy Quilt."

"Yeah, he's like a Magikarp. Only he'll never get to be a Gyarados," Harley said.

"I have no idea what those things are, but yes, I'm sure the analogy works. Get your coat and let's go see an insect about a party platter."

Harley whooped and hugged Crane. "This is gonna be the best Halloween ever! Thanks for puttin' up with me."

Crane gave Harley's head an awkward little pat. He hoped she was right about that punch bowl.

* * *

The End.

Happy Halloween, folks.

George Romero directed the _Night, Dawn, and Day of the Dead_, as well as many other movies. Tobe Hooper directed one of my personal favorites, _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_, and _Poltergeist_.

Magikarp and Gyarados are both Pokemon. Magikarp is a sad, sad fish that eventually evolves into Gyarados, a huge, sweet dragon-monster. Unless it dies of shame first.


End file.
